The Detective and the Doctor
by PaintYourPaletteBlueAndGray
Summary: Stranded in London, the Doctor has no choice but to look for a flatmate. A flatemate of all things! Once he finds someone willing to put up with him, he realizes that it will be just as much on him to put up with his moody new companion, Sherlock Holmes.
1. Chapter 1

Hello everybody! I'm back from the dead after...jesus, three years, and this time it's a Doctor Who/Sherlock crossover! I'm sure this has been done before, but the story has been tickling my mind for a while now, and I just had to get it down. I'm thinking of continuing, if the response is good enough, but it's been a while, so I'm sure my writing skill are probably rather rusty. This hasn't been beta'd or brit-picked, so it's likely to be riddled with errors. Wait, what am I doing? I'm putting down my own story, shame on me. Anyways, please R&R and tell me if you'd like to see the story continued or not!

Thanks for reading!

* * *

The TARDIS flew through the Time Vortex, crashing heavily into the brilliant walls as it did so, sending the small blue box spinning and twirling in a clumsy dance as it struggled on to it's destination. That destination was of course Earth, London to be precise, at 12:36 on a sunny Sunday day in July, the 25th day of the month. Or close enough to that, landing was never certain when the Doctor piloted his beloved ship.

It was, of course, quite difficult for him to do, as back on Gallifrey, a TARDIS was usually piloted by no less than 6 Time Lords at any one time, but the Doctor was alone. Sometimes he wasn't, he liked those times, when conversations about nothing and everything flowed through the infinate halls and rooms of the ship, and he _laughed_. If he was being perfectly honest, he liked to laugh, but when he was alone, nothing could force the wonderful sound from his lips. When he had a companion, however, he laughed every hour they were with him, a huge smile on his face no matter if they were discussing the fashions of Mars in the 78th century ('A complete laugh' in Rose's opinion) or the politics of the Santaran military ('That's just inhuman,' Martha had declared after a pause ['obviously,' the Doctor had thought, but he knew enough to keep his mouth shut]). Now, however, his face was pulled into a cold and somber position. He needed to find a new companion soon, or he was really gonna drag the whole atmosphere down with him, he decided to himself. 21st century London was certainly turning out to be a hotspot of fascinating people, hence his rough journey there.

With a final bang, the TARDIS landed. The Doctor stepped out onto the pavement, blinking in the bright sunlight of the summer day, and sighed happily to himself, letting the wave of hurried rush past him, completely ignoring the strange blue suited man and his strange blue box that quite literally appeared out of nowhere. He loved humanity. Putting on his glasses, he locked the TARDIS and strolled off, hoping that something would happen to him, because something always happens to him.

* * *

Sherlock Holmes peered at the body wrapped up in it's black bag, laying limp on the gurney. He gave a nod to Molly, a small, mousy girl with a ridiculous crush on him and a soft spot a mile long for lost causes. Which he supposed he was, again ridiculous. "Fine," he said after the mortician had stopped her little ramble about the body's previous occupant. He zipped up the bag and straightened his coat. "We'll start with the riding crop."

A short hour later, he was in the lab, examining the broken blood vessels off the dead man's wounds from his, ah, _exertions_ with the crop. He paused for a second at the sound of approaching footsteps, two men, one fat, the other thin, but soon dismissed it as Mike Stamford and some prespective flatemate for him. Sure enough, the two men entered soon after, laughing about some old story of Mike's. "A-and then," the portly man chuckled, "We left him in the pond to sort himself out!" The two men burst into laughter, Mike pounding on the lab table with a clenched fist in merriment. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the man Stamford had brough to him. Tall, with short brown hair and square black glasses perched on his nose. He was wearing a finely tailored blue suit with a red tie, but was most fascinating were his eyes. Even while he howled with laughter over whatever childish prank Mike had pulled in his youth, his eyes were dark, and old. Sherlock felt a drop of cold go down his spine at the sight of the strange man's disparity, and identified it as dread. _Who is this man?_ He wondered. His own sharp eyes skimmed over him, but found nothing, no trace of what his life left on him. "Mike, may I borrow your phone, there's no signal on mine," he said in a bored tone, turning his head slightly to where Mike stood, panting and red faced. It was a demand, not a request, Sherlock never asks.

"And what's wrong with the landline? You still have those don't you?" The strange man asked, cocking his head and peering at Sherlock with an expression normally found on disappointed mothers. He then peered around the room as if it would tell him if they still had landlines.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, "I prefer to text," he said testily.

"Aah," said the man, nodding with a thoughtful look on his face.

"Sorry, it's in my coat."

Sherlock turned his gaze to the stranger, the demand in his eyes again. The man shrugged, "Sorry, don't have one."

"You don't have a phone?" Mike sputtered at him.

 _Interesting,_ thought Sherlock. "Very well, I suppose I'll have to ask Molly. It's been a treat to meet you."

"But you haven't even met him!" asserted Mike, pressing forward. "This is a good friend of mine, John Smith."

 _Fake name, fascinating. Who are you?_ Sherlock wondered once more.

"Interesting. How do feel about the violin?" He asked as Molly came in with his coffee. Wonderful, he'd nearly forgotten, well not really, but it was so much more convenient that trying to go find her. He took her phone away while distracting her with a question about her lipstick and shot off a quick text to an aquaintance. Slipping the phone back into her pocket he sent her off, glancing at 'John Smith' and noting that he had observed the entire exchange.

"Violin?" John asked.

"I play the violin when I'm thinking and sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other."

The blue-suited man cocked his head to the side. "Who said anything about flatmates? I didn't say anything, Mike did you? No, definitely didn't."

"I did," Sherlock swept up to gather his coat. "I told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is, just after lunch with an old friend of his. Wasn't a difficult leap."

Mike laughed. "We're not old friends, I only just met him this morning!"

"What?" That stopped Sherlock flat.

"Yeah," John laughed with Mike. "Just ran into him, literally, spilled coffee all over himself, and we got to talking, I mentioned looking for a place to stay and well," he grinned widely. "Here I am."

"And why are you looking for a flat? Surely someone of your age would have some friends or relatives to live with."

The man shrugged, staring at the ceiling. "Could say the same for you." He lowered his gaze and fixed Sherlock with a searching stare. Sherlock wondered if this was how corpses felt as he examined them.

He tugged his scarf around his neck defensively and moved forward, stepping around John and Mike. "Got my eye on a nice little place in central London. Together we ought to be able to afford it. We'll meet there tomorrow evening at 7 o'clock."

* * *

The Doctor wrinkled his nose, he didn't like having somewhere to be. He much preferred his usual motus operandi of just appearing at the right time. Ah well, he supposed he could the metaphorical bullet on this one. After all, he thought bitterly, it's not like he had a choice.

 _He had been walking around the city for an entire hour, and nobody had jumped out at him, or bumped into him, or even really glanced his way. No young woman with a thirst for adventure came to inspire him to show her the universe, no man came forward to challenge his beliefs about the goodness of men. All in all, the trip had been a complete failure. His feet led the way back to the TARDIS with a slight lapse of the pep his walk usually carried._

 _Then he stopped. The TARDIS was gone._ Gone, _the TARDIS was gone, he thought. How could it be gone? He left it right here, he remembered locking it. "Excuse me," he called out to an old homeless man pretending to be asleep on a nearby bench. "Have you seen a box sitting around anywhere near here."_

" _There was," the man gasped. He was old, and the strain of living outdoors had made him ancient. Weary blue eyes peered out from the folds of wrinkles dripping off his face. A shining bald head and a ragged white beard framed his face, while two large red ears poked out from a mass of white ear hair. His clothes were ragged things, taken from dumpsters and clothes donations from the more fortunate, who really had just given what they thought none of their friends would want. A bright orange quilted vest, dimmed from years of grime covered a tattered white turtleneck covered in yellow stains which the Doctor feared (and his nose confirmed) were made by piss. Sun faded blue jeans covered his skinny legs that ended with brand new sports sneakers. The man caught the Doctor looking at them, "Didn't steal them," he snarled defensively. "I bought them, with me own money."_

" _I'm sure you did," murmured the Doctor. "You said there was a box here, was it blue, with a white light on top?"_

" _Maybe," said the homeless man, leaning back down and closing his eyes. "Maybe not."_

 _The Doctor groaned, he hated this part, the part where people acted like the stupid apes they were, always groping for the next banana. "Listen, um, sorry, didn't catch your name."_

"Didn't give it," the man grunted, his hands folded over his stomach. At the Doctor's questioning silence, he groaned and gave it, "Donald, but most people call me Mac, you know, from the nursery rhyme."

 _The Doctor nodded. "Hello Mac," he said brightly. "I'm the Doctor."_

" _Doctor?" Mac opened his eyes and glared suspiciously at the younger/older man. "_ They _sent you, didn't they? It appeared out of nowhere, I swear it on me mother's grave, it did!"_

" _I believe you," the Doctor calmed, placing a reassuring hand on the older/younger man's shoulder. "Now Mac, you have to tell me, and this is very important, who's they?"_

They _as it turned out, were military personnel, led by "a fierce black beauty with a mouth on her like Churchill on a drinking binge." Martha Jones, his old companion. Of course she would notice the TARDIS's presence, only why would she take it?_

'Something doesn't add up here.' _He thought as he thanked Mac for his time, and tossed him a sandwhich which the Doctor happened to have in his pocket. He thought he had bought it a few mornings ago on the planet Touodlin, so it was probably fine. Probably._

 _He rushed to the nearest payphone and soniced himself an hour of phone time. "Hopefully it will be enough," he muttered, his mind on Martha's ability to rant for excrutiatingly long periods of time._

" _Doctor," her voice chirped in his ear. "I'm assuming you're calling about the TARDIS?"_

" _Of course I'm calling about the TARDIS!" He whined. "Why'd you take it?"_

 _He could almost hear the smirking shrug she was giving at the other end of the line. "Sorry, confidential. Don't worry, you'll get it back, probably."_

" _Probably?" He groaned, flopping back against the wall of the horribly small call box. Why couldn't it just be bigger on the inside? He felt like banging his head against the glass, but refrained so he could try to reason with Martha._

" _Sorry Doctor, but I really got to go, talk later, yeah?"_

" _She hung up," he said in disbelief as he stared at the buzzing receiver in his hand._

 _What did the military want with the TARDIS? Yeah, okay it was extremely advanced alien technology with the power of a thousand thousand suns running it's engines, but really, was that any reason to compound it? He'd have to investigate. Unfortunately, he had no idea where they could have taken it, for all he knew it could be in Zurich by now. He took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose in annoyance. 'Take one day off to enjoy London, and this is what you get,' he thought in disgust. Brilliant. Now he had to find a place to stay, perhaps for a while._

 _He leapt out of the box and sprinted to the nearest doorstop where the morning's paper lay. He wouldn't steal it, he was really just borrowing it to look for the roommates wanted ads. Surely Mr. and Mrs. Gatiss wouldn't mind the single page missing? He would even return it, once he was done. Or at least, that was his plan until he got coffee all over the whole paper, ruining at as he walked headlong into a rather large man with horn-rimmed glasses and a gaudy tie._

 _The man's name was Mike Stamford, and he apologised over and over and even bought the Doctor another newspaper, which he promptly delivered to the home of the Gatiss'. Mike had screwed up his face at that. "What'd you do that for?" He asked._

" _Just was borrowing it to look at ads for something," the Doctor sighed, flopping onto a nearby park bench and tilting his head back to watch the clouds._

" _And what's that?" Stamford sat next to him, leaning slightly towards the Doctor with a curious expression on his face._

" _Ah, never mind, it was stupid really, I'm a very difficult person to flat with anyway." He said lightly, swinging his feet._

 _Mike laughed. "You know, I heard almost the exact same thing from a friend of mine."_

 _The Doctor opened his eyes and glanced at the large man, wondering where he was going with this._

" _I could introduce you. Hell, if you hit it off, you'll be doing me a favor, he's been sleeping on my couch."_

" _You don't even know my name," the Doctor said quietly, frowning at his new friend._

" _Well, I'm Mike Stamford."_

 _"Hello Mike Stamford, I'm the D-John Smith." He grinned toothily. 'Play it cool, play it human."_

* * *

"So that's it then?" The Doctor asked. "We've only just met, and we're going to go look at a flat together?"

"Problem?" Sherlock questioned.

The Doctor, or rather, John Smith, cocked his head, looking thoughtful, then, "Nah, not really," he sniffed, dismissing all doubt from his mind about this man's intentions.

Sherlock smiled, despite himself and stode out of the lab, "Oh," he paused, slightly leaning back to give his new flatmate one last look. "The name is Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221b Baker Street. Afternoon!"

And with that, he was gone. The Doctor was in shock, no he was beyond shocked, he was….he was….gobsmacked, yes that was it. He was gobsmacked to hear the name of the man he was considering living with was Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock _bloody_ Holmes, the name that had rung throughout the universe for centuries as the human equivalent of the Doctor himself. Sure he had no blue box that was bigger on the inside, or a sonic screwdriver that could open any door, but he had his _mind._ His brilliant mind that people sung of for generations.

"Sherlock Holmes," the Doctor grinned, whirling around and grabbing the startled Mike Stamford. "Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant."

* * *

Well there it is, in all it's Doctory/Sherlocky glory. Tell me what you think? Did you like it? Hate it? Is the Doctor wrong? Is Sherlock? Am I the best writer you've ever read? Don't answer that one, I know I am. Okay, all done for now.


	2. Chapter 2

I'm baaaack! Seriously, got major writers block on this chapter, which is weird, because nothing particularly interesting happens. But I'm done with it now, bwahaha. Also could use a beta, because I try my best, but I'm a sloppy typer.

* * *

It was a cold and blustery day in the city of London, which was not exactly surprising, as even in the summer, the bank of thick grey clouds kept the suns rays from warming the sprawling city. John Smith stood on the filthy sidewalk of Baker Street, hands in his pockets, squinting at the small black letters declaring the address of 221B. He could feel his hearts hammering in excitement at the thought of seeing the famous detective again, the famous detective who was now also his new flatmate, which was almost like a companion in the TARDIS, only the Universe was now crammed into London. Well, new potential flatmate, anyways. He knew Sherlock Holmes had his suspicions about the Doctor, or at least he better, as the Doctor knew he had been delightfully vague yesterday at their meeting, just enough to be intriguing, without being obvious. He frowned, glancing up at the sky to try and discern the time. It looked to be about 54 minutes and 13 seconds after 6 pm. Brilliant, he was so rarely early, though he supposed having a missing TARDIS was to blame, as she was so often apt to dump him sometime completely different than what he had originally intended.

* * *

He had spent the night wandering the city, learning as much as he could from the styles and speech of the tourists and locals around him. He had learned that the man purse was making a comeback, and that small dogs liked to eat whatever was nearest to their mouths, whether it be a specially tailored leather shoe of a business man, or the week old feces of a much larger breed. He had learned that the homeless of the city all knew each other, and were paid to spy on those around them by a number of different people and factions. He had learned that the underground stations got uncomfortably hot at all hours of the day, and if one were to stand there unmoving for 4 hours watching the crowds come and go, the security guards were unwilling to listen to the perfectly reasonable explanation he had come up with on the spot. He had also learned that there were repeated suicides that had taken place all over London, all supposedly unconnected, and all by the same method of ingesting poison in a deserted location. Idly, he wondered if Holmes was already on the case. He hoped he'd find out.

A taxi pulled to the curb and out sprang the Man himself. The Doctor opened his mouth to start the overwhelming tide of questions springing out, but clapped a hand over his mouth at the last second. If Sherlock had noticed, he kept his observations to himself, likely trying to make a good first impression on the new flatmate. "Hello," he called after paying the driver.

"Mr. Holmes," beamed John Smith, clasping his hands over Sherlock's proffered one delightedly and shook it, grinning widely.

"Sherlock, please," said Sherlock, artfully pulling away his hand to knock at the door.

"Well," John said, rocking back on his heels with his hands in his pants pockets. "This is a good spot, lovely spot, don't you think? Might be a bit out of my price range." His price range was in fact zero pounds twenty pence, the pence being given to him by some nice old lady who thought he was homeless last night. Nice woman, no idea what was going on around her, unfortunately. He had taken her back home, and she had screeched at him and hit him with her purse when he tried to return the coin.

"Oh, Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, she's giving me a special deal. Owes me a favour." Sherlock drawled. He stepped closer, "Few years back, her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help out."

"You stopped an American execution!" The Doctor exclaimed in astonishment.

"Oh, no," Sherlock shrugged, turning towards the door.

"I ensured it."

The door opened and a motherly older woman stepped out, crooning Sherlock's name and embracing him tightly.

Sherlock stepped quickly out of the hug, turning to introduce the two. "Mrs. Hudson, this is…"  
"The Doctor," John Smith replied eagerly, leaping forward, but froze immediately, his eyes wide as if he just realized that a large bee was perched on the tip of his nose. "Doctor John Smith," he managed to say after a moment.

Sherlock eyebrows twitched as he tried to maintain an indifferent expression. He knew that this man would slip up the longer he asked questions, only time would tell if he could find out who this man was, and who sent him. He had his suspicions of Mycroft, obviously, but his brother's subordinates were usually much more boring than the man before him.

Mrs. Hudson swept them both inside, ignoring, or quite possibly not noticing the slip up, and marched them up the stairs to see the flat. Well, at least for John to see the flat, as Sherlock had already moved in, depositing boxes and papers in an elaborate system based on the order of the halls in his mind palace. _Of course,_ the biological observations of decomposing tissue on a reptile had to be wedged underneath the ripped out portion of the Encyclopedia Britannica covering the history of tattooing! It would be madness if it were anywhere else.  
John Smith wandered through the doorway, his eyes darting everywhere at once. It was obvious that most of the debris littering all surfaces belonged to Sherlock, as he seemed to have claimed the living room, and the kitchen as his own. He picked up a small petri dish that seemed to have a human fingernail in it, lounging sadly in a bright blue mixture that smelled of bleach and dish washing liquid. The dish was snatched quickly from his hands by a livid Sherlock. "Don't touch that!" He snarled, "That is a very important experiment on the effects of common household cleaners on the tensile state of fingernails!"

"Now Sherlock, be nice, I'm sure Mr. Smith was just curious," consoled Mrs. Hudson, "You do keep an awful mess, dear, wouldn't it be nicer to be a bit cleaner?"  
"Right," muttered Sherlock, clearing his throat and moving away. "Well, obviously I can, um, straighten things up a bit."

"No, no," insisted John, "I like it. It's…." he trailed off, staring at the mantle. "That's a skull."

"Friend of mine," said Sherlock, glancing at it. "Well, I say friend…"

"What do you think, then Doctor Smith?" asked Mrs Hudson. "There's another bedroom upstairs, if you'll be needing the other."

"Yes, will definitely be needing the other," chirped the Doctor, clasping his hands behind his back.

"Oh, don't worry, there's all sorts round here," said Mrs. Hudson reassuringly. "Mrs. Turner next door's got married ones."

She bustled away, and John flopped down comfortably on the red armchair sitting by the fireplace, his long limbs splayed carelessly in all directions in a position that was at once relaxed looking, and entirely uncomfortable looking. Sherlock took a place by the window, watching the street. "So," John said after a minute, lazily tilting his head on the back of the chair to give Sherlock an excitedly careless look. "The Science of Deduction, then?"

Sherlock turned to study him back. "You've heard of me."

"Course I have," scoffed the Doctor, "Who hasn't heard of Sherlock Holmes?"

"A great many people," stated Sherlock, narrowing his grey eyes.

"Ah," said the Doctor lightly. Right, then, at the start of his fame, known by the police, but not anyone else. Has a website, but very little traffic. _He's an explosion waiting to happen,_ thought the Doctor, grinning. And he could see it all, if he stuck around. His face fell, but he needed the TARDIS, needed to find out exactly what was going on with Martha Jones.

Sherlock watched the play of emotions on the Doctor's face, wondering what the strange man could possibly be thinking. "Go on then, what have you heard?" he asked.

The Doctor studied him for a moment, before speaking in a low voice. "I've heard you can identify a software designer by his tie, an airline pilot by his left thumb, a waitress by her socks, and an assassin by his beard. I've heard that you can tell where a person has been in the last week by glancing at their shoes, and what they had for lunch by their pockets. I've even heard you can find a murderer in less than 24 hours if a case interests you. I wonder how much of that is true. Like…" he paused, casting his eyes about the room, his lips pressed together in a tight line. "Me," He finished. "What can you tell me about myself?"

Sherlock stared at him. "Most people do not…appreciate my observations," he stated stiffly.

"Nah," John Smith waved his hand, "I'm not most people. Go on, I want to know." He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and his hands clasped, locking eyes with Sherlock in a challenge. And who was Sherlock to deny him?"  
"I know you have no home at the moment, nor have you any relatives to call on. You have the self confidence to find someone to live with, indeed, you find yourself naturally inclined to finding connections with strangers, but you choose not to, perhaps due to the loss of past friends, or most likely to your sense of duty to the family who died just long enough ago that you have started to move on, but not long enough to not feel regret for doing just that.  
"You've traveled most of your life, never settling down in one place for longer than maybe a week, which begs the question of why you are here now, looking for a place to live. There are two options that present themselves knowing what I know about you, one is that you travel alone, although sometimes pick up other people to spend part of the journey with, so you must have some vehicle with which you get around, which is now unavailable to you. If it just needed repairs, you would get a hotel, but no, you're looking for a flatmate, which means that you no longer have a working vehicle. The other option is that you're tired, and are hoping for a reason to stay. My guess leans towards the former, but I cannot entirely rule out the latter, yet."

A silence filled the flat for a long time, with John staring at Sherlock with a stunned expression. Sherlock shifted uncomfortable. Soon would come the shouting and the throwing things and then the man would be gone. Shame, he thought he could get along with this one.

A smile lit up the Doctor's face. "Brilliant!" he exclaimed.

Sherlock frowned, suspicion strong in him. "Really?"

"Yes, really," the odd little man practically shouted. "Unbelievable really, and to think we only met yesterday, good job, Mr. Holmes." He shook Sherlocks hand, beaming that bright smile of his, but the smile didn't quite reach his eyes, which were still dark with some strange emotion that Sherlock was certain he never wanted to feel.

"How about these suicides, then, Sherlock?" asked Mrs. Hudson, stepping into the living room with a newspaper. "I thought that'd be right up your street. Three exactly the same."

Sherlock was fixated on the window, no longer listening. "Four," he murmured, lifting the thin curtains out of the way as he peered at the cop car now parked in front of his door. The Doctor perked up, listening intently.

"There's been a fourth, and there's something different this time." The great detective said, turning back to the room with a fierce gleam in his eyes.

A grey haired man ran up the stairs, pausing in the doorway. "Where?" Asked Sherlock immediately.

"Brixton, Lauriston Gardens," the man said after a pause.

"What's new about this one? You wouldn't have come to get me if it wasn't something different."

"You know how they never leave notes?"

"Yes."

"This one did." The new man said grimly. "Will you come?"

Sherlock considered for a moment. "Who's on forensics?" He asked suspiciously.

"It's Anderson," relayed the man, giving Sherlock a small shrug as if to apologize.

Sherlock scoffed and turned away. "Anderson won't work with me."  
"Anderson won't work with me."

"Well, he won't be you assistant."

"I need an assistant!" Demanded Sherlock.

The man resisted rolling his eyes. "Will you come?"

Sherlock nodded. "Not in a police car. I'll be right behind."

The man thanked him, nodded quickly to John and Mrs. Hudson and left.

Immediately, Sherlock was jumping in the air, whooping and celebrating his luck over being called onto a case he'd been desperate to gain access to for a long while.

"Brilliant! Yes! Ah! Four serial suicides and now a note. Oh, it's Christmas. Mrs. Hudson, I'll be late. John, make yourself at home. I'll be back late." He was spinning about the room and simulaneously throwing on his coat when he paused, staring at John. "You're a Doctor, you said." He stated, considering the other man with a thoughtful expression.

"Yes," said the Doctor. "I am."

"Any good?"

The Doctor grinned. "Oh, yeah."

"Want to come."

The Doctor stood. "I thought you'd never ask."

* * *

Phew! Chapter 2 (finally) done! Read, review, favourite, or ignore! Except for that last one, I don't know what it's doing there.


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